Irresolution
by Forensiphile
Summary: Sometimes the best decision is not making a decision.


**Title:** Irresolution

**Author**: Forensiphile

**Rating**: TV-PG

_Sometimes the best decision is choosing not to decide._

**Notes**: Many thanks to **Beanarie** for the 'vacation' prompt via Tumblr. Many apologies for it not being much of a vacation.

Thanks to **Cybrokat** for the beta.

Life without Sherlock was a little dull.

Joan didn't come to that realization on the first day of their separation, but by the middle of the third she was wondering if living with a human Ping-Pong ball had a heretofore unrealized and very negative effect on her attention span. She missed the peak volume shouts of "WATSON!" and the taps and thuds and sighs that accompanied his presence. When she woke that morning, unassisted, in her well-appointed hotel room, she found herself wishing he was there to startle her to awareness like she had become accustomed.

In short, she was bored.

The getaway was a spontaneous decision, the result of the resolution of a case combined with the realization that she hadn't had a full night's sleep since well before the Moriarty trauma. She found herself needing to get away from the city and the death and chaos that didn't just follow them, but that they seemed to actively seek.

The conversation with Sherlock had been a somewhat awkward one. She brought up the subject over a dinner of Panang curry and Rice Krispy treats. The latter was courtesy of one of Sherlock's rare trips to the corner market. They had eaten in a comfortable silence until she needed to rip off the figurative Band-Aid.

"So…I was thinking of getting away for a few days."

He looked up. Clearly she had his attention, but he seemed content to chew.

"It's been a rough few weeks and I think a little time away might be good."

He straightened a bit, swallowed. His eyes didn't leave his plate. "A little time away or a little time apart?"

Joan had formed scenarios as to his reaction. In the first, he encouraged her to take some time for herself, if only because he probably needed it as well. In the second, he got huffy in his quintessentially British way, breaking out the hard 'T's at the end of all his sentences because "the work, Watson, the work" and she told him to deal.

Any scenario where he immediately leapt to the worst possible conclusion was left out of the repertoire of Possible Sherlock Holmes Reactions. She immediately felt the need to come to his aid. "Sherlock, that's not it at all. This isn't about you. It's about me going to go sit on a beach somewhere and read a book that doesn't involve analyzing the composition of industrial solvents."

"So I take it that you have come to resent your reading assignments?"

_What the hell? _"No. Don't you ever just need a day to clear your head?"

He stared at her. Not at her, exactly, but at her hands. No, he probably didn't need a day. She had come to embrace their work. He never had. He lived in it. It had struck her more than once that when he listened to music or watched a movie or tolerated a sporting event (always for her) that he never passively enjoyed the experience. It was always a mean to an intellectual end.

It had occurred to her that perhaps she should invite Sherlock on the weekend away. Never did it occur to her that he would consider it.

He stood suddenly and walked his dishes toward the kitchen sink. "You're right, Watson. I do think a few days' separation will do us both immeasurable good. You need a clear mind and I could use the time to revisit hobbies I've come to avoid in your presence."

As close as they had gotten, she had never learned completely the rules to this game they were playing. She ignored the inexplicable sting of his words and affected a bright look. "Great. I'll leave day after tomorrow and be back Monday."

A quick nod. "Excellent."

Walking toward the stairs, Joan turned as she reached the bannister. "Don't you even want to know where I'm going?"

"If you think I might find it relevant." His tone was cold. Colder than it had ever been before.

Whatever. She turned around and called back a short "Good night" before slamming her bedroom door.

-

Three days later she was still trying to make sense of their conversation. Calling it an argument seemed over-the-top. She had settled on passive-aggressive exchange, but she wasn't sure even that described it. She knew Sherlock better than anyone. She knew all his tics (could she not?) his toiletry preferences (plain Dial soap, no exceptions,) his secret phobias (bats threw him into an almost catatonic state.)

An outsider would have witnessed their discussion and have seen a set of partners, one griping about the other's vacation time. Yet it had unsettled her because it had continued until she had left the brownstone two days later.

He had never resented her spending time with her friends, or dating, or even stepping away from a case to spend time with her family. In fact, he seemed to encourage it. What was different?

She flipped over on her towel, deciding for the umpteenth time to put it out of her mind. She was at the beach, in the sun, and the sounds of the city might as well been a million miles away from the patch of sand on which she rested. She picked up her Kindle to resume a mindless novel, the kind that seemed written for just the occasion.

Her phone chimed and she jerked upright, grabbing it and feeling somewhat pathetic.

The pathetic feeling grew as she realized it wasn't Sherlock, but Emily. She sighed and tossed the device back into her bag. Emily had broadly hinted earlier that she might like to come out and join her for the day. She had ignored that text, and the few that had come after it. Things between them had never really improved after the failed intervention. They had met up a few times for coffee since, but the conversations were stilted. It was Joan's fault more than Emily's, she knew. She felt closed off from her friend. Former best friend, since replaced.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Sherlock had taught her more than his work. Maybe she had become as insular as he was, as he would likely always be. For months she had turned down dinner requests from Em, and Hope, and Ken. From old school and doctor friends. She used to date regularly (not frequently, but regularly) and now she rarely bothered. She had her work, a new career.

And Sherlock.

She had realized that morning that she could count on one hand the number of times they had been apart more than a few hours. In the beginning, it was her professional obligation. She simply wasn't allowed to leave him alone for periods longer than 120 minutes. She could literally set a clock to the structure that was their relationship.

She wasn't his sober companion anymore, yet that structure hadn't changed. She was with him not because she had to be, but because she wanted to be. She had once told Rhys that Sherlock was her number one priority.

He still was. Caught up in her own point of view, Joan realized maybe it wasn't a one-way street.

Reaching for her phone again, she bit her lip and tapped out a text.

The sun had come and gone, as had dinner, and Joan sat cross-legged on the stark white, hotel-grade duvet, forgoing the vista out her window in favor of her phone which lay silent in front of her. No calls, no texts, no email forwards .

She wondered if he was still angry or just enjoying the company of the Lynch sisters. She ignored the clench in her belly that came with the last thought.

Was his 'hobbies' comment an intentional jab? Was he trying to make her jealous? Had he deduced something about her that she had not?

Or was he projecting?

She rolled over onto her stomach, smashing her face into a pillow. Sherlock had done it. He had accomplished what Gregson and Bell and Alfredo and their mailman had told her he'd do.

He had driven her insane.

-

She didn't know how long she had been asleep when she awoke, disconcerted. She sensed movement in her room. Glancing at the far wall, she saw the drapes rustling in the breeze from off the balcony. She let out a sigh, relieved, and was almost asleep again when there was another sigh.

Not hers.

Full of adrenaline, she jumped out of bed and reached for the closest weapon. In this case, the short lamp from the bedside table.

"You might want to unplug it first, Watson. Otherwise, it's a remarkably unsuitable object with which to bludgeon someone."

Even the villains of her nightmares had British accents. "Sherlock?"

Still breathing rapidly, Joan made out a human form sitting in the chair across from the bed. He didn't move or speak, but she could tell it was him by his posture. "Sherlock! What the hell?"

"I received your text," he stated, as if it should all be rather obvious.

"Etiquette states that you should text a reply, or call. Not break into a hotel room and scare the shit out of me." She smoothed down her hair and silently counted to three. "How did you even get in here?"

"I am Sherlock Watson, your husband. When I expressed to the front desk attendant that you had ventured off for a girls' weekend and left your medicine behind and that in my rush to bring it to you I had left my identification behind, she asked only that I confirm the address. Easy, that, considering your home is also my home."

"That's it?" Joan was incredulous.

Sherlock tilted his head. "I did also show her your prescription bottle to give credence to my claims." He tossed a small, orange bottle at her.

She couldn't help but smile. "Amoxicillin?"

"That was a terrible sore throat you had six months ago, Watson. I would hate it to come back while you're on..." He gestured around the room. "...holiday."

Sighing, she stood. "Why are you here?"

"As I said, I received your text. You said we had matters to discuss."

She looked at the clock. "At 2:36 in the morning?"

"You made no reference as to its urgency."

She took in his rumpled clothes and the circles under his eyes. "You should be sleeping."

"Sleep is for the dead, Watson. I do all my best thinking when there's a minimum of distraction."

"New case?" Now it made sense. Gregson had sent him a new consult and despite their argument the other night, he just couldn't help himself. Work was the tie that bound them.

"No."

"Oh." There was an awkward silence that grew more awkward as the moments passed. Finally, Joan took the reins. "I missed you."

"And I you."

The formality in his tone made her laugh. He could break into her hotel room, but here he sat, rigid, exhausted, and not able to meet her gaze. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and spoke. "I wanted to invite you, you know?"

He stared at his hands, his fingers tapping on his thighs. "I was not and am not angling for an invitation."

"Hear me out."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling in something akin to exasperation. She continued. "I didn't, though, because I couldn't assume you would want to come, and I wasn't sure I wanted you here."

He was looking at her now, and the wounded-puppy look she had seen countless times before had escalated into genuine hurt. She talked quickly. This was going to be the hard part. "I have been with you for almost a year. We work together, we live together, eat together, and share a bathroom. We've had discussions about boundaries, but there are no boundaries, Sherlock. We know everything about each other, and several weeks ago I found myself empathizing with a woman who murdered someone because she did it for the man she loved. I go on a weekend trip and all I can think about is you and the Brownstone and the bees and whether a three-day getaway is damaging a relationship that doesn't exist in any socially accepted way. Is this making sense?" She was rambling, and one look at Sherlock showed her that he felt like he was in an altered state. She let her arms fall against her sides.

"I'm still half-asleep. You're clearly exhausted. We need to have this discussion another time." She sat back down and slid her bare legs back under the sheets. Sherlock seemed to watch her without seeing, and she saw him nod and move toward the door. It was darker in the room now; the moon had disappeared behind clouds.

She heard the door open, then close. She turned over on her side and was trying hard to turn off her thoughts when she felt the bed sink under Sherlock's weight. One thud, then two, and she knew he was taking off his shoes.

She was surprised to not find it an intrusion when he slipped under the covers; it felt like a natural extension to a frequent ritual. She wasn't surprised when his hand clasped her lower arm; it felt like an escalation of an intimacy they already shared.

When his left leg slid through hers, though, it was a surprise and she let out a breath. "What are we doing?"

"Your confusion, Watson, is based in the mindset that our relationship could ever be typical. Whatever you are, or are not, to me is not typical. Our dynamic becoming socially acceptable, as you put it, would be, to me, a dilution of what we have."

"What do we have?" The conversation was surreal. She reached for his other hand and entwined her fingers in his. It was a comforting measure for herself more than an overture.

"I find it easier to measure it in terms of what we don't have, which is to say: a sexual relationship."

She couldn't help it; she laughed into his chest as she turned her body to face his. Her right leg was now resting over his calves, his head now resting on her left arm.

"What? You don't agree?"

"That we don't have a sexual relationship? No, I agree."

She could feel, not see, his smirk. "Is that what concerns you? Would you like one?"

She tilted her head up, her face close to his. "I'm pretty sure that 'typical' people don't have this conversation."

He seemed to ignore her. "I cannot say that I'm against it. I'd be untruthful if I said that I don't find you attractive. Living in close proximity to someone of your obvious beauty lends itself to such thoughts."

"This is the most articulate come-on I've ever heard in my life."

"…but a romantic relationship is not without its perils."

She nodded. "I agree. Without sounding like a cliché, I'd hate to ruin our friendship." What they had was more than a friendship. Much more, but that wasn't something she could define, either.

His chin lowered and their lips met. It wasn't a short kiss, but it was somewhat chaste. Only their lips met, just little nips and tugs and she was quite sure it was the most meaningful kiss of her life. When they parted, she opened her eyes and found Sherlock staring at her in what could only be described as adoration. She smiled and moved her hand from his neck to his hip, making small circles with her thumb. Their legs still entwined, they were silent, crickets chirping outside the balcony the only sound.

Sherlock spoke, his voice as light as she had heard it in a while. "I can see no reason we cannot be all things to each other, Watson. But let's not define it. Only we can decide what's acceptable. Not society."

Touched, Joan wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. She was no less confused than when the night had started, but she was at peace. Time would dictate the terms of their relationship. She felt very warm. Very safe. Very tired.

"Can we decide after we sleep?" She smiled, putting a light kiss onto his collarbone.

She felt him nod.

FIN


End file.
